


Black Market Briefs

by Lightpoint



Series: The Underwear Trash Compactor [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Body Worship, CRACKSMUT, Crack, Cracky Smut, Death Star Smut, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, M/M, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, Multi, Nasty Imperials, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader is the Filling in a Snarky Imperial Sandwich, Reader-Insert, So Very Gratuitous, Stealth Parody, Threesome - F/M/M, Underwear, Underwear Kink, Voyeurism, seriously there is no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10009148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightpoint/pseuds/Lightpoint
Summary: The pissing contest between Director Krennic and Grand Moff Tarkin is the stuff of legends.This time, it's about underwear. Reader gets caught in the middle of their ongoing argument.Or:'The One Where Reader Helps Tarkin and Krennic Temporarily Accept Each Others' Design Choices Through Spontaneous Nookie'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. ...Ok I lied there are totally more of these 'Underwear Headcanon' things. They're just too much fun!  
> 2\. Getting ‘dressed down’ means to get told off by a superior officer, usually in a very embarrassing and/or serious fashion.  
> 3\. This has little to no socially redeeming value. So I'm so, so sorry if you came here looking for a profound treatise on the nature of the Universe. xD
> 
>  **EDIT 3/6/17:** I split this into 2 parts because pacing. *shrug*

**THE UNDERWEAR HEADCANON DRABBLE:**

**Krennic:** Designed his own version of the *Imperial Standard Issue Briefs.* They are sleek, tight, light as air, and match his cape. They make everyone’s ass (seriously, _everyone’s_ ) look so good in the Imperial Standard Issue Officer Pants that wearing them during inspections is considered _cheating._

Underwear genius. 

The problem? He’s trying to get them into regular circulation.

…Which ain’t gonna happen, **BECAUSE:**

 **Tarkin:** Designed the *Imperial Standard Issue Briefs.* His legacy WILL LIVE ON, DAMMIT. Even if The Krennic Knickers get very, very popular on the Imperial Officer black market…Cue drama.

'Plot Relevant' Note: Krennic _also_ designed a line of brassieres...

*****

************************************************************************************************************************************************

*****

“Hold, Lieutenant.”

You freeze in your tracks, barely suppressing a shiver at Tarkin’s sharp command. You turn to face him, and stand at attention, chest out, shoulders back, chin level. And, of course, staring into infinity. It usually helped keep your mind off the click of his boots on the deck plates, every step, every movement measured, deliberate, his icy gaze taking in every bit of you.

Usually.

A few of your more courageous friends shoot you sympathetic looks as they file out of the conference room, doubtlessly heading for the relative safety of the junior officer’s lounge. Keeping their heads down while the Grand Moff worked out whatever was on his mind. You couldn’t blame them. Normally, you’d be right there with them.

“Director Krennic.”

You really _do_ flinch this time. Tarkin’s thinly veiled dislike for Director Orson Krennic was like lint on the Emperor’s robes; something that you pretend not to notice. However, their relationship was generally professional enough…But you wouldn’t want to be anywhere near them if their fragile peace went to shit. And from the look on Tarkin’s face…

_Damn it._

So much for a nice, peaceful, prestigious billet.

“Governor Tarkin?” You keep your eyes carefully forward as Krennic glides forward and flicks an imaginary spec of dust off of his sleeve. You push down a sneer at his pristine white uniform, topped with his personal touch; a floor-length white cape. The ensemble reminds you _far_ too much of a Grand Admiral’s dress uniform. Granted, the man wore it well (and was the subject of many an Academy fantasy), but…

 _Just wear the damn Sci Corps uniform,_ you think, for the thousandth time.

“Is there something that you wish to discuss? Or with…” Krennic’s eyes flick to your rank plaque, then your face, and then back to your chest, presumably to double-check. You just barely catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “…Lieutenant L/N.”

Tarkin purses his thin lips. 

“Yes, Director Krennic,” he says. “Please, have a seat. At ease, Lieutenant.” 

You slide into a relaxed parade rest, your senses on high alert as Tarkin and Krennic take their accustomed seats at the table; Tarkin at the head, in his high-backed, hard chair, Krennic at Tarkin’s left elbow. For a long time, they sit in silence, Krennic growing increasingly uneasy, Tarkin resting his chin on his hand, thinking. Finally, he sits back in his chair, and turns to face you.

“Turn around, Lieutenant L/N.” 

You blink, but somehow otherwise keep your face straight. 

“Now, Lieutenant.” 

You obey, and focus on just how _fascinating_ the status holo-panels are on the far wall. Nervousness flutters in your belly. You haven’t felt this on-edge since basic training, getting reamed out by your drill Seargent. Or at the Academy, getting dressed down after a bad room inspection. 

Your apprehension grows as you hear a rustle of fine cloth, and then the squeak of leather. The back of your neck pricks. They’re watching you, certainly. But why?

 _Did I iron my pants?_ you think, suddenly feeling even more like a Cadet at her first inspection. 

And then it hits you.

_Oh KRIFF no --_

You hear a sharp intake of breath behind you, and then the rap of knuckles on the conference room table. And then, another order.

“Remove your trousers, Lieutenant.”

You’d been half expecting something like this, but hearing it – 

“Sir, I –“

“Wilhuff, is this really – “

“Remove your trousers, Lieutenant. _Now._ Unless you require _assistance?”_

Your body jerks involuntarily at the sharp, sarcastic question. For an insane half-second, you are tempted to say _yes,_ just to see what he would do. But…reason prevails. You reach for your belt, grateful that your back is turned as a deep flush blossoms across your face. 

Your fingers are at your waistband when you get a thought.

“Boots too, sir?”

There is a brief silence. Krennic gives a slightly strained cough. 

_Maybe they’re reconsidering…_

No such luck. 

“That will not be necessary,” Tarkin murmured. 

You nod, steel yourself, and unfasten your belt. Your blush deepens as you’re forced to temporarily remove your knee-high boots to get out of the sharply tailored pants. There’s an awkward wiggle as you manage to get them off with a minimum of bending over, and then step back into your boots. 

Unfortunately, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the polished deck plates. Sweat breaks out on your forehead. Your tunic barely covers your hips. Smooth black leather shines against your bare legs.

You look like you’re about to step into a military-themed porn holo.

And underneath the tunic…

“Lieutenant, you are out of uniform. Explain yourself. Turn,” he snaps, cutting off your mumbled reply. 

“Yes, Lieutenant, please. Enlighten us,” said Krennic, looking meaningfully at Tarkin. Damn it, the asshole was _smirking._ The Director leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes locked on your hips, and the thin line of white material visible underneath. “Lift your tunic.”

You nearly lose your balance as a wave of half-embarrassed heat washes through you. But you obey, lifting the edge, showing everything below the waist. 

Force damn it, why did you have to pick _today_ to try your present on for size?

“I think I rest my case,” Krennic drawled. “Superior in every way.” His eyes trace your curves, come to rest on your sleek, white silk panties. The fit is every bit as flawless as your friends had claimed. Right now, though, you weren’t so sure that it was worth it.

 _I’m going to_ kill _Jos…_ Jin’al le Jos, the junior Steward in the junior officers’ quarters (deck 4B), had bought them for you, in an attempt to get back in your good graces after he’d shrunk half of your standard-issue briefs in the laundry…And by ‘bought,’ he meant ‘traded the Quartermaster his dessert ration for the month.’ Rumor had it that there were only a few hundred pairs in existence, and you could only get them from the low-key black market run by the non-coms in the Death Star maintenance tunnels. They were durable, comfortable, and somehow made pretty much everyone’s ass look utterly fabulous. 

They were also illegal. Technically. Every so often they’d turn up in somebody’s locker, or hidden in the overhead compartments. The ensuing ‘panty raids’ (thinly disguised as random contraband inspections), were the stuff of legend. But the 'Krennic Knickers' (named for their rumored designer) always managed to find their way out of the contraband lockup and into somebody’s pocket, and were either hoarded or traded for credits, rations, and (rumor had it) extremely personal favors.

 _But, I mean, how the hell did they_ know? They certainly _did_ make your ass look utterly fabulous, but it was pretty nice to begin with, and in the uniform pants, the only way someone would really be able to tell is if they were very well-acquainted with how it normally looked in said pants…

_…Wait._

You flinch, ever so slightly, breaking focus as an impossible thought swims to the surface of your mind. Your eyes flick to Tarkin, take in the sharp square of his shoulders, the thin line of his lips. The man is coiled tight, radiating tension. _Anger._ And you have his undivided attention.

You bite your lip – you can’t help it – when he catches you looking, and his pale eyes stab straight to your core. He shifts in his seat, makes the smallest of adjustments to his tunic.

Krennic, meanwhile, isn’t done. 

“Turn around,” he murmurs, twirling his finger in a circle in the air. You obey, trying to ignore the heat of his gaze. 

“There,” Krennic continues. “Just as good from behind. Yes?” No response from Tarkin. And that was worse. In so many ways. So you fall back on an old Academy defense mechanism; stand at attention and wait it out.

You didn’t have long to wait. 

“Well?” Krennic snapped. A creak of metal, followed by a thump; Krennic getting to his feet. Tarkin sighs, and raps the table with his knuckles. 

“All right, Director. You have made your point. However – “ Tarkin clears his throat. “I believe that I have a counter argument. At ease, Lieutenant. And turn, if you please.” 

You comply, wondering at the change in his tone. 

_Please?_

Tarkin is still seated at the head of the table, an odd little smile playing across his sharp features. Krennic stands at his left, eyeing the Moff warily. He looks up, though, when you complete your turn. His gloved fingers twitch, and your bare thighs shake as you are once again _very_ aware of the fact that you’re only half dressed. 

And that under your high-collared tunic you’re likely gleaming with sweat.

“Lieutenant,” Tarkin says slowly, drawing out the word. He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. You flush as his pale eyes pierce what’s left of your composure. “Open your tunic.”

This time you can’t stop your eyes from widening, or the tip of your tongue from running over your suddenly dry lips. The high collar is suddenly chokingly tight, the stiff material suffocating. 

And there was something in his voice…

You catch his eye. His gaze narrows, but he seems oddly…approving when you don’t look away. 

“Yes sir,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady. It’s Krennic who flinches at the sound. Tarkin’s smile widens. 

You dare to smile back. Just a little.

You have their undivided attention when you unclasp the top of your collar. You don’t bother to make a show out of it. This is your _uniform,_ after all, you can get in and out of it in two minutes, even drunk off your ass. You don’t have to watch what you’re doing, either. Your fingers flicker down the hidden clasps with smooth precision. It gives you the perfect opportunity to watch the Moff and the Director watch you. 

Something in Tarkin’s gaze told you that you wouldn’t be reprimanded for it, so you let your eyes rove boldly over your superiors. Krennic’s eyes are locked to your fingers. He’s trying to look just beyond the cage of your hands at the lengthening strip of skin. His face is reddening, his posture entirely too stiff. Abruptly, he sits back down and scoots close to the table. You pause, your hands on your belt, as Tarkin glances to the side, and down to Krennic’s lap. 

You bite your lip as Tarkin chuckles. 

“Something amiss, Director?” he asks, the picture of serenity. Krennic grits his teeth. 

“Of course not,” he grinds out, crossing his legs. You repress the urge to tell him that the table is too high (from where you’re standing, anyway) to hide anything going on in those perfectly pressed white trousers.

You start again when Tarkin looks back. Not much left to do, just unhook the belt, and drop your hands to your sides. 

The tunic, of course, is so well tailored that, even undone, neither of them could see much. Just a line of skin, throat to navel, and a thin section of black material…  
Krennic huffs. His brow creases with frustration. Tarkin might as well have been made of stone. You lift an eyebrow, and consider your options. It _is_ awfully warm…

You toy with the edge of the garment. Two minutes later, when Krennic is noticeably biting his lip, and there is the faintest of creases between Tarkin’s eyebrows, to decide to risk it. 

“May I remove this, sir?” you ask, as coolly as you can. You turn slightly towards Tarkin, letting the material shift open just a little more, making it clear that you’re looking for _his_ go-ahead, not Krennic’s. 

He gets it. 

“If you wish it, Lieutenant,” he murmurs. 

“I do, sir,” you respond, heat settling low in your belly. 

This had become an extremely interesting day.

You consider letting it fall to the deck the way you’d done with your pants, for dramatic effect, but you can’t quite stomach the thought, no matter how clean the deck was. Also, it would get so wrinkled…You shrug out of it with crisp, efficient movements, and fold it up as carefully as you can. 

“On the table, Lieutenant,” Tarkin says. 

You think that maybe, just maybe, his voice has gone a thread thinner than usual. Sharper, like needles on steel. 

You comply. 

Tarkin smirks, and leans back in his chair, smug as a nexu after a meal. Krennic gapes, and you get the very singular experience of seeing his jaw drop.

There is a long silence. Their gaze grows into something sharp, a nearly physical burn on your exposed skin. You are very grateful for the material of your standard-issue brassiere…thick enough to hide your tightening nipples. Then Tarkin looks at Krennic.

“See?” 

Somehow Krennic manages to look even _more_ uncomfortable. He doesn’t look away, though, just flinches with…

 _Is that…_ shame?

_Huh?_

Your confusion doesn’t last long. Tarkin gets smoothly to his feet and steps to your side. Slowly, he slips a finger under your left bra strap. You have to bite your lip, and clench your fists, _hard,_ to stop from leaning into his touch.

“Why did you choose _this_ garment, Lieutenant?” he murmurs in your ear. You swallow dryly.

“Ah…”

“I understand that you may have been presented with other…options?”

And then you get it.

“I…I was, yes,” you say, your voice wavering for the first time. 

Jos the Junior Steward had also presented you with a non-regulation, _very_ contraband white satin bra. It was pretty, sleek, sheer, matched the panties…and a total disaster. 

You’d turned it down. 

“Kindly explain why, exactly, you chose _this,”_ he said, tugging gently at the strap. “Over the match for…those…things.” He barely bothered to glance downward. 

Krennic jumped to his feet. Tarkin shot him a _look._ The Director glowered, but proceeded forward at a somewhat more sedate pace.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” you whisper, when Krennic stands at your other side, glaring at Tarkin with animosity you’d rarely seen outside of strategy meetings. 

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Tarkin purrs. His hand lingers on your shoulder. 

“Yes. Please,” says Krennic, through clenched teeth. 

You take a deep breath. There _might_ be a way to salvage this situation if you kept your wits about you. But for now…The best way might be the truth.

“Because it…Fits,” you blurt out. “It’s comfortable and…uhm…pretty flattering. You can’t really see it under my uniform. It’s…” You blush hotly. “Supportive. I need that. The other one…”

Your mouth grows dry. 

_Stick to the truth._

So you do.

“I mean, it was technically my size, but it pinched, it was way too thin, and it squeezed everything up so high that my uniform didn’t fit right, and honest to _God_ who needs all that padding! I mean, was it designed for another _species,_ or something? It gave me the _worst_ quadraboob…And it’s not like anyone’s going to…” You trail off.

_Shit._

“Nobody’s going to _what,_ Lieutenant?” Krennic snaps, stepping closer until he was an inch away from your face.

“…See it,” you mutter. You don’t dare look at him. Or Tarkin. “And I like this one just fine. It looks…” You trail off miserably. The standard-issue, _Tarkin-designed_ bra wasn’t going to be winning any high fashion awards anytime soon…but the fit was seamless, and gave you just enough shape to flatter your figure. It was also cut low enough in the front to be rather _interesting_ if you wore it with your civilian clothes. 

“It looks…Quite nice, doesn’t it?” Tarkin murmers. You shut your mouth. That was for Krennic, not you. 

Another long, thick silence. 

“…Yes,” Krennic growls. His eyes flick to your cleavage. “Yes, it does.” 

Tarkin’s teeth gleam in the muted light. 

“It’s settled, then?”

“I see your point,” Krennic replies, grudgingly. 

“Would you also admit that your knowledge of the female form is…lacking?” Tarkin asks lightly. He trailed a long, cool finger down the back of your shoulder, tracing down to the band. “Such design failures…” He shook his head. “…Can only mean a total lack of both knowledge and experience. Sad.”

“It is _not,”_ Krennic snaps. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. 

Tarkin snorts. You swallow down a giggle as the two men glare at each other. 

_This isn’t funny, this isn’t funny, this isn’t funny…_

“You know,” you hear yourself say. “There might be a way to test that...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krennic and Tarkin discuss their design choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for splitting it up! Nothing new here, just me being weird about pacing.

They look at you. 

Tarkin slides his finger beneath the back band of your bra. He toys with the clasp. 

Vaguely, you wonder where, exactly, your common sense had gone. And, yet…

“Director Krennic,” you continue, “Is likely more familiar with _this.”_ You reach out, and move Krennic’s shaking hand to your ass. He groans roughly and squeezes the firm globe, kneads at your flesh through the slick white silk. 

A shudder runs through your entire body. He presses against the thin barrier, dragging along the cleft. 

“But you, sir, seem to be more --” You don’t get a chance to finish, because Tarkin unhooks your bra and tugs it over your head in one smooth motion. You gasp as he cups a breast, rolls the aching nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

“And this one – Ah! – Is a lot – Ea-easier to get out of than – ooof! “ Your words die as Tarkin lifts you effortlessly and pins you to the conference table. 

Krennic growls in protest and tugs you down the table, fingers twisting in the waistband of your underwear. Tarkin slaps his hands away when he grips your thighs and tries to flip you onto your stomach. 

“Not yet,” he snaps. “Watch and learn. And do _try_ not to embarrass yourself…” He glances pointedly at the erection now clearly outlined through the Director's trousers. 

Krennic glares, but he releases you and moves behind Tarkin. You hear the sharp sound of a zipper being opened, and then a soft, relieved groan. 

You decide not to tell him that _that_ is just going to make it worse in the long run. Then most of your higher brain functions cease and desist as Tarkin lifts your hands over your head and presses them firmly to the table. The rough material of his tunic grinds deliciously against your nipples, the pressure sharp as your breasts lift and strain tight. 

“Hold,” he barks. 

Somehow you recover enough coherency to nod, and keep your arms pressed to the table, depite the rising need to feel the rough cloth of his tunic _rip_ under your fingers. Tarkin, unfortunately, seems to realize this, and just _stands_ there, watching you, for a frustratingly long time. 

To distract yourself, you glance over Tarkin's shoulder and meet fierce, ice-blue eyes. Krennic's mouth quirks up into a smirk. You watch, open-mouthed, as he presses his hand to his crotch. You catch a brief glimpse of the outline of his cock through thin white silk. Your eyes widen.

“You’re wearing them too?!” you blurt, the sudden image of the Director in tiny, ass-sculpting, crotch-molding panties cut low on his narrow hips blasting through your mind.

_Kriff. Me._

“Of course he is,” Tarkin murmurs, _finally_ sliding his hands to your waist. He leans over you, wetting his lips with a quick flash of tongue, his eyes tracking the tremors shaking your tits. You suddenly felt the need for more air. “He designed the damn things.”

“I – I heard a rumor – but – Ohh…” Your head tips back as Tarkin lowers his head and sucks your left nipple into his mouth. At the same time, he trails long, clever fingers up your flank to your right breast. And _squeezes._ You gasp and arch into his touch, the aching grip and the wet swipe of tongue firing your blood. Your thighs clench as you feel yourself growing wet.

You hear a quiet groan, and look up to see Krennic squeezing his eyes shut, as if in pain. Tarkin turns away to glare at him, and you whimper, actually _whimper_ as the cool air caresses your wet, swollen nipple. 

Tarkin _tsks,_ and shakes his head. 

“If you’re not going to pay attention…You might as well make yourself useful." 

Krennic swallows, glancing between you and Tarkin, as if caught. 

Tarkin's lip curls with impatience. 

_Now,_ Director."

You moan softly as Krennic takes a shaky step forward and leans over you, watching Tarkin’s hands. 

“Careful, now…” Tarkin murmurs. He nudges your legs apart and steps between them, his long, sharp fingers digging into your hips. He grasps Krennic’s wrist and moves it to your thigh.

Krennic glares at him. 

“I am an extremely quick study," he snaps. But he keeps his hand on your thigh.

Tarkin’s smile is full of teeth.

“Are you, Orson?” he whispers, low and sibilant. “I'm afraid you're going to have to prove it." 

If looks could kill, Tarkin would have been spattered on the opposite wall. Krennic stepped in closer, opening your legs wider in the process. 

“Better...Now, Lieutenant, I require your help. The Director is a…special case. He needs…feedback. _Honest_ feedback,” Tarkin murmurs. “He needs to _earn_ your approval.” 

You nod quickly.

“It’s, ah, the best way to learn.” 

You trail off when Krennic’s hand tightens on your thigh. He leans closer, getting a better view of Tarkin's hands gliding over your sweat-slick skin. Slowly, he reaches out to cup your right breast. You sigh encouragement and arch into his touch. His hand is hot and smooth and large and, yet…

 _“Harder,”_ you order. Krennic grasps your jaw, turns your head to face him. 

"Like this?" he hisses. _Much better._ “Good...Now…watch him…Ah…”

Krennic nods, and mimics every flick and press of Tarkin’s fingers. Soon you’re _drowning,_ swamped in hot breath on sensitive skin, edges of teeth, and hot, heavy hands, so much larger than your own, kneading you until you ached. Molten heat pools deep in your core, soaking the thin material.

“Some women can even come from this,” Tarkin says, conversationally. His free hand slides down to your thigh and grips, hard. The fine silk of your panties is suddenly too tight, too rough. You have enough presence of mind left to marvel on the difference between the two hands holding your thighs apart. Tarkin is sharp and solid, unyielding, fingers deceptively long and elegant. You couldn’t move if you’d wanted to. Krennic’s palms are soft and smooth (doubtlessly due to years of desk work) and more…responsive…clenching and shifting every time you pull against him. 

Then Tarkin’s hand slides higher, just outside the leg opening of your panties. He leans closer, whispers in your ear.

“Can you?”

You bite back a scream as he and Krennic pull at you at the same time, shoving you over the edge. 

You’re still panting, boneless when they pull back from your aching tits and direct their attention lower. Tarkin shakes his head.

“So impractical,” he mutters. “Soaked through, in no time at all…Take a look, Lieutenant.” 

Somehow you lift yourself up on your elbows and look down. And immediately slump back again, growing somehow redder than before. 

“That’s the problem with _white,”_ Tarkin purred, stroking the inside of your thigh. “Get it wet, and…”

It was true. The thin material was so soaked that it had gone nearly transparent. You might as well have been wearing nothing at all. And the way it ground at you if you so much as _twitched…_

“May I…please…” Krennic groaned, his hands twitching at his sides. You glance at Tarkin and nod slightly.

“He’s a fast learner,” you say. “But I think he still needs to be assessed.”

“Then let’s see what he can do, shall we?” 

Krennic immediately pounces, and presses his palm to your aching core. You whine, rolling your hips as he increases the pressure, moving in circles, grinding the material against your sensitive flesh. It’s too much. And not enough. You need _skin._

“Get – get rid of – “ you gasp. 

Tarkin chuckles. 

“Well, Orson? The lady doesn’t want them anymore.”

Krennic ignores him, pushes the soaked material aside, and circles your entrance with his finger. 

You cry out and surge up off the table, reaching for the waistband. Tarkin, however, is having none of that. He snatches your arm and pushes Krennic out of the way. The Director glowers, but steps respectfully back after a tense moment.

“Mind your place, _Director,”_ Tarkin murmurs, tracing the now loose, stretched leg openings. You squirm under him, seconds from begging him to just _rip them off._

And yet…You were curious about something.

“Have you seen the other style?” you gasp. “The one he's…” Tarkin cocks an eyebrow.

“You think that Director Krennic might have an additional argument?” You nod shakily. “Well then, Director...Your counter-argument?”

It takes a few moments and a lot of meaningful looks from you for Krennic to get it. He grins wolfishly, and reaches for the clasp of his cape. 

He takes his time. Then again, he's wearing what is, by your standards, a dress uniform, so you try your best to be patient, despite the need swelling within you. Tarkin, meanwhile, is being completely unfair, and tracing the edges of your panties, skirting the surface, never pressing closer than the band. 

Finally Krennic stands there in only his briefs. Which are nearly identical to your panties. The thin, tight garment is completely failing to restrain what had to be a rather painful erection. The thick, flushed head is clearly visible over the top of the band. 

You decide that Tarkin had a point. The Krennic Knickers were rather impractical. Pretty, but impractical.

You say so, your voice thin and shaky. Krennic glowers, but not quite as fiercely as before. 

“They’re sturdier than they look,” he says. “The material is actually quite…”

Tarkin chooses that moment to test Krennic’s claim, and rips them away with a sharp tug. You gasp as cool air touches your swollen lips. Your thighs strain against Tarkin’s hands as you try to get some damn friction.

“You were saying?” Tarkin snorts. “Now. Watch carefully, Director Krennic.”

The Moff loosens his belt.

“Practicality was the primary consideration in this design. Also…elegance. There is a great deal of beauty in simplicity, don’t you agree, Lieutenant?” 

You nod, eyes locked on his long fingers. Your male colleagues frequently joked about their speed advantage in the washrooms (and in, eh, clandestine liaisons), largely thanks to an endlessly practical design feature of their Standard Issue briefs; the front snap closure. 

Krennic apparently got the message, too, because he’s suddenly leaning over you, watching your every movement. You reach up and cup his cheek.

“Show me what you’ve learned.”

He does. Soon you’re squirming under his touch, arching your back and moaning, halfway to desperation. It’s so much worse this time, after you’ve already come once, lying completely bare before your two superiors. 

“Good – Good work –“ You gasp out. Tarkin clears his throat.

"Enough," he says quietly. A soft _whisper_ of cloth. 

You bite your lip as Tarkin frees his half-hard shaft. The Director’s hands freeze. You tear your eyes away from the swelling flesh at Krennic’s shocked intake of breath. He’s staring, his sharp eyes tracking Tarkin’s long fingers as they grasp the base of his cock. Krennic’s hands on you tighten, and you hiss. 

“You seem tense, Director. Where is your _patience?”_ Tarkin’s smile is sharp, mocking.

A shudder racks Krennic’s spare form. Suddenly he’s up on the table, sliding next to you and hauling you up into a sitting position. He maneuvers you so that your legs are in the air, the edge of the table digging into your ass. Krennic groans into your hair, and holds you steady against him. You shiver at the strength in the arm wrapped partway around your waist, holding you tight against his chest. You twist, grasping behind you, _finally_ managing to haul his other arm up to your side and press his hand to your rib cage. Your head lolls back against his shoulder as you hold tight, finally finding balance. 

Krennic nuzzles your ear, breathing you in. 

“I can see much better this way,” he murmurs. 

You gasp as you realize that it’s true…He’s got you stretched out in a tight line against him, your hips canted up, thighs straining with the effort of keeping yourself on the table. At this angle, he’d be able to see everything that…

Tarkin steps in closer. You notice, with no small sense of satisfaction, that there’s a light flush creeping up from under his stiff uniform collar. _That_ surprises you more than the hot, hard press of his cock against your thigh.

You decide that you like it. The Grand Moff, flustered…Not something that you see every day. 

You wonder if you can do it again.

Your chain of thought is thoroughly derailed when Tarkin grasps your thighs and _squeezes._ You yelp with surprise…and relief, as he takes some of your weight. Your stomach swoops as you realize that if either of them let go, you’d crash to the floor, and… It’s odd…This feeling of relief, when you feel so horribly vulnerable. 

You decide to think about that _later_ when the blunt, thick head of Tarkin’s cock presses against your entrance. Krennic stiffens behind you as Tarkin runs it up and down your folds, slicking himself up. You whine, clutching at Krennic, trying to rock your hips, but you’re held fast between the two men. You can only wait. Finally, you can’t stand it anymore. 

_Screw protocol,_ you think.

“I’m re – “

“Shhh…” Krennic hisses in your ear. “I’m _learning.”_

_Asshole…_

“I thought you were a quick study!” you snap. You glance sideways. His panties, though thoroughly ruined at this point, are still on, and straining to hold his flushed cock. “And why are you still wearing those?” Krennic smirks.

“Well, you haven’t done anything about that, now, have you Lieutenant?”

You bare your teeth and think. With Tarkin holding you, you’ve got enough support to…You release your grip on him and tug the thin silk down under Krennic’s balls, smirking at his surprised gasp. Tarkin chuckles as Krennic nearly loses his hold on you. The chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh when you grasp the base of Krennic’s cock and _squeeze._

“Kriff!” Krennic yells. His cock throbs in your hand. His breath stutters as you scrape your thumb along the underside. 

“Well…It looks like we might have to cut this lesson short…” Tarkin says, with a contemptuous look. He shakes his head. “See what I have to deal with?” he mutters, catching your eye. 

“Completely,” you reply, your stomach fluttering. 

Did he just…Joke? With _you?_

You don’t have time to process, because then his fingers are gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. He slips in slowly, tortuously, a nearly silent rumble growing in his chest as you open for him. Your eyes flutter shut at the stretch, and your grip on Krennic loosens as you lose yourself in the sensation. Your eyes fly open at the rough groan behind you. 

Krennic is staring, mouth hanging open and wet. You feel his heart thudding in his chest as his entire body seizes up. 

Krennic loses it completely when Tarkin draws back, sliding partially out of you. You cry out as the Director of Special Projects goes as tight as a durasteel rod and comes all over your hand with a high, needy cry. You stroke him through it, savoring the lost, low sounds issuing from his lips, and the helpless twitch of his softening cock under your fingers.

Then Tarkin hooks your left leg up over his arm, and thrusts hard. Your last coherent thought as he drives into you was that it was _such a shame about Krennic’s panties._

You’d have liked to see him in them later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yeah, some of the Underwear Headcanon drabbles will be getting full-length fic.  
> 2\. The drabble/thing/whatever up top is also on the Tumblr blog thirst-order-confessions-renewed [here. ](http://thirst-order-confessions-renewed.tumblr.com/post/157291107383/underwear-headcanons-krennic-and-sort-of-tarkin#notes) One of my submissions, hence the extensive liberties taken with this fic xD


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